When my brother Lewis and I were little we used to play ‘army’ a lot. It turned out that other kids called it ‘war’. We had a grandad with a shed full of wood-working tools and it wasn’t unusual for him to kit us out with wooden guns, swords and shields to act out our pretend fighting (I even got him to make a wooden brick once — yeah I know, I have no idea …
“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz!” one merry man sings as he gallops around me dizzyingly. I’m in the Land of the Dead (an appropriate title for a desert filled with skeletons and token scorpions) and I’ve joined a party lead by a rough looking Warrior Priest. ‘Sigmar’ is scrawled across his forehead. I’m unsure whether its carved into his skin, or written on in blood, but either way he’s …
“Has anyone got any Golden Scarabs spare?” I ask mid battle, as we bound across Dragonwake from Eataine. Our band of merry men plough through the lush green fields as one hulking mass of armour and death. In ancient times Dragons would heed the call of Princes to defend the lakes, but I get the impression it is their day off today and it’s down to us, instead…